


long nights, no peace

by arklaygothic (clockworkcorvids)



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant: Resident Evil 2, Canon divergent after that, Drabble, Game: Resident Evil 2 Remake (2019), Gen, Just angst, Post-Resident Evil 2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snippets, cw for gun mention, is this short enough for that? idk, no happy times in my gdocs tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/arklaygothic
Summary: It isn't like in the movies.(Or, Leon can't sleep.)
Kudos: 5





	long nights, no peace

**Author's Note:**

> title from can't sleep by k.flay
> 
> my brain is so empty and my wips are very much abandoned no matter how i try, so i've been writing some really short pieces to get the gears turning again
> 
> might continue this tho B)

It isn't like in the movies, where the soldier wakes up in his own bed - home, safe, seeing things - and fumbles for the gun in his bedside drawer.

Well. 

All of these things happen. Word-for-word, a play-by-play sequence, but it isn't like in the movies, where the soldier doesn't have to go back to war. This soldier never left the battlefield. He might be safe right now, in this moment, but in the long run he isn’t. There's nothing in his present that separates it from his past.

Everything is a haze of fear.

He isn't safe. He doesn't remember the last time he was safe. He doesn't know when he'll ever be safe again. 

The gun drops to his bedsheets, safety still on, and Leon after it, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He isn't mentally present enough to know if he screamed or not, but it's not like anyone's around to hear him, except maybe the folks in the nearest occupied motel room. If management comes knocking, this will be the fourth motel Leon's nightmares have gotten him kicked out of, but it's not like he has a better option. Claire and he circled around after Raccoon City was destroyed, and they decided it was best for Claire to take Sherry to find Claire’s brother, leaving Leon on his own to look for answers in the ruins.

After that, it was only a matter of time before he left to embark on the worst road trip of his life (so far). So here he is with his beat-up Jeep (rescued from that Mizoil station hours before Raccoon City was reduced to rubble), hopping between motels, heading deep into the middle of nowhere. 

Not only is it becoming increasingly apparent with every passing day just how much trauma he's picked up from Raccoon City, but that shit is still actively piling up. The apocalypse waits for nobody and nothing, evidently. 

After long enough sitting hunched over the side of the rickety motel bed, cold metal of the Matilda pressing against Leon's bare thigh, his heartbeat is mostly steady again, and his breath is, well...somewhat regulated. He's still hyperventilating, but at least it's slow-ish now.

He misses Claire. He misses Sherry. He misses Claire's brother who he doesn't even know. He even misses Ada a little bit. He misses when the only crisis he had to live through was his own personal issues.

Well.  _ Issues _ is an understatement, but he’s not going to think about it. He’s a pro at not thinking about it. He’s just going to think about the way his heart might rip itself out of his chest any second now, the way his palms are slicked with enough sweat that he couldn’t hold Matilda steady even if he wanted - or  _ needed _ \- to. 

Leon’s back is starting to hurt, and his still-bandaged shoulder along with it, so he swings his legs back up onto the bed and leans back against the pillows. It’s a long shot from any real sense of comfort or safety, but it’s better than nothing. 

He wipes his hands on his jeans, takes a moment to feel bad for the poor motel employee who is going to find the imprints of his boots on these sheets tomorrow, and sets Matilda down on the nightstand again. Careful. Just within arm’s reach. At an angle where he can grab it quickly, but where he won’t fumble and shoot himself by accident. 

The shitty analog clock on the wall regards him from across the room, almost mocking. He can’t read it in this light, or lack thereof. 

He won’t be getting any more real sleep tonight. 


End file.
